You Can Imagine The Christmas Dinners
by johnsarmylady
Summary: Set the morning after a Study in Pink, John sits and contemplates Mycroft's words. In answer to a challenge set by Librarianmum, and dedicated to that talented lady. Rated T, because I'm paranoid.


**A couple of days ago I received this challenge from Librarianmum….****  
**_**I have a challenge for you (if you're not already working on it). Simply this: Mycroft: "you can imagine the Christmas dinners". John:**__** "Yeah ... no. God, no!"**__** I would love to know what John imagined & how his lurid imagination compared with reality!**_**  
It didn't turn out quite the way I expected, but I hope you like it anyway, because it's dedicated to you, Librarianmum, for your reviews and encouragement.**

_Italics denote John's thoughts and imaginings._

**Disclaimer: Don't own, wish I did!**

Sherlock lay on the couch, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes closed, to all intents and purposes asleep – except that he wasn't. He was in his mind palace, a splendid place of many rooms, where today he was constructing a room labelled 'John Watson'. A room where he could file away the fact that this new flatmate, far from being just a means to pay the rent, had not only followed him on a glorious chase across the rooftops and through the streets of London, he had also killed a man to save Sherlock's life. That was new. That was very different. It needed consideration.

"Have you been there all night?" John asked, wandering through the living room on his way to the kitchen. Last night had been surreal, and right now all he could think about was making a cup of tea.

"Want a cuppa?" he called through to the man on the couch. Still no reply. _This must have been what he meant when he said he didn't talk for…did he really mean days?_

At last, sitting down in the chair that he had 'claimed' as his own, he allowed his thoughts to wander over the events of the previous night, in particular the revelation that the berk who had kidnapped and tried to bribe him, was none other than Sherlock's brother!

_What was it he said? 'He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners.' What was it he resented?_

Staring across at the unmoving figure, John tried to imagine those dinners….

_So, what kind of house? Not the type of suburban semi that he and Harry had grown up in – somehow looking at the two brothers that didn't fit. No, it would be a largish country estate – entailed to the eldest son, no doubt – God, no wonder he was resentful. Here he was, needing to share a flat with a crippled ex-army doctor, while his obviously loaded brother got all the family money and property._

_Oh well, so country mansion it is then. __I suppose all the local gentry were invited – can't quite see the medieval custom of inviting the estate workers._ A small chuckle escaped, and John looked across to see if he had disturbed the consulting detective, but no, he was as still as an effigy on a tomb – in fact he looked like one, with that alabaster skin and the silent 'prayer' pose.

_Christmas dinner then – a grand affair, sitting down in the evening (because, of course, no one wanted to be so full that they fell asleep through the Queen's speech!) after a day of opening presents, and playing games…._ He paused for a second. _Did posh boys do that? Play games at Christmas? Probably, then after dinner there'd be an orchestra in the ballroom…_

He almost choked with the need to control his laughter at that. Somehow his mind had taken them from the twentieth century right back to the eighteenth, German George on the throne and men mincing around in high heels and bejewelled stockings….

_Okay then, Victorian parlour games._ John's mind dredged up remembrances of primary school history lessons. _Were his parents the demonstrative type? Would they go for something like The Sculptor? All playing statues and falling about giggling? No, maybe it was more dignified laughing – like the Laughing Game. Or __no, maybe brain-teasing puzzle__ games like 'How? What? Where? When?'_

Suddenly a picture of Mycroft – younger, eager to please his parents, wanting to remain the apple of their eye despite the 'late' arrival of a younger brother – assailed John's inner eye. A young man whose life had been mapped out for him at an early age; who would be the centre of his parent's life. John didn't for one minute believe he would deliberately try to undermine his younger brother, more that the younger brother would push the limits of his self-control, and what young man would want to argue against his parents, especially at Christmas? An image sprung to mind.

_The family sat around the fire, father being the one to think about the object._

"_How do you like it?" Mother asked_

"_I like it well dressed." Father replied._

"_Why do you like it?" This from Mycroft._

"_I like it because the sight of it pleases me."_

"_When do you like it." Once more, Mother asked the question._

"_Oh, I like it all year round!"_

"_Where do you like it?" Sherlock's voice, not yet broken and showing none of the promise of that deep baritone, asked the final question._

"_In London." Father chuckled as he looked around at the faces of his family. "Well? Does anyone know what it is?"_

"_A house?" Mother smiled, knowing this would be unlikely. Father shook his head._

"_A turkey?" _

_Sherlock grinned at this – trust his brother to be thinking of food!_

"_No my boy, not a turkey, although I hope out turkey will be well dressed today!" _

_All eyes turned expectantly to Sherlock._

"_A mistress?" he asked innocently._

_The happy atmosphere in the room immediately vanished. Father's face turned a deep red, Mycroft by comparison turned pale, as did their mother._

"_I beg your pardon?" Father's voice was dangerously quiet._

"_Sherlock dear…" his mother could barely speak._

"_But…" the youngest Homes looked around at the accusing faces of his family. "But Mycroft told me! He said rich country gentlemen often have mistresses in London!"_

"_How dare you!" His father's roar could have been heard in the next county, as he grasped the child by his upper arms and gave him a shake. "How dare you try to blame your brother for your filthy insinuations? Go to your room, I cannot bear to look at you! Your dinner will be brought up to you, you will not sit at table with us today."_

_Released from his father's painful grasp the young boy staggered slightly, looking to his mother and brother to defend him. Mother looked away, and Mycroft merely hung his head. Biting his lip to keep from crying, Sherlock turned, and with as much dignity as he could muster walked from the room with his head held high._

Sitting back in his chair, John sipped his now nearly cold tea, and thought about the picture he had imagined of Sherlock's childhood. Then he thought about the little he knew of his new flatmate, and the tiniest of insights he had gained into his relationship with his brother, in those few angry sentences, exchanged at the crime scene. That alone convinced him that if this had really happened, then Sherlock wouldn't have left it at that.

_Sherlock stealthily made his way to the dining room, where the long table had been set for family and guests, each place having a name-plate, and each place having a small, beautifully wrapped gift. Quietly he walked around the table, his disgrace made complete by the sight of his name plate in front of an empty space, the place setting and gift removed. Everyone attending would know he had done wrong._

_Moving around the table, he found Mycroft's place, laughingly set between two of the local beauties – hadn't they worked out yet that their heir was gay? Sherlock stood for a while by his brother's chair, content in the knowledge that his brother would be decidedly uncomfortable as the two wilful and vicious girls vied for his attention. _

_The sound of approaching footsteps sent him scurrying towards the servant's door, but he wasn't quick enough, and as his brother entered the room the younger boy froze._

"'_Lock, you shouldn't be here. If father catches you…"_

"_My name is Sherlock. You lost the right to call me 'Lock when you stood there and let father believe I was lying about you. Why couldn't you admit you told me that?" _

"_I'm sorry… I…"_

"_I don't care! I hate you! You may be the eldest, the heir – but they don't know you for the bastard you are!" and with that he turned and ran back to his room, locking his door and flinging himself onto his bed._

_Downstairs, the guests were arriving, and Mycroft greeted each one, showing them to their place at the table. _

_As courtesy and good manners dictated, he was the last to be seated, but when he lowered himself into his chair, a loud and very rude farting sound was heard – loud enough to drown out the chatter of the assembled neighbours._

_Mycroft shot to his feet as everyone turned to stare at him, his face painfully red. Stumbling away from the table he pulled from under the seat a whoopee cushion._

That was it, John let out a bark of laughter at the thought of Sherlock's revenge, holding his sides as tears of mirth streamed down his cheeks. The sound of Sherlock clearing his throat pointedly made him realise the other man was no longer lost in thought.

"I'm sorry….it's just…" he tried to get his breath back.

Sherlock just raised an eyebrow and looked at him.

As he finally got himself under control, John wiped a shaking hand across his face and gathered his scattered thoughts.

"Can I ask you something?" he waited for his new friend's nod of acquiescence. "What _**were**_ the Christmas dinners like?"

"Boring."

**A/N: Victorian Parlour Games:  
The Sculptor: Player 1 is the sculptor. They have to put the other players is awkward and hard to hold poses. The first person to laugh or overbalance is the loser and becomes the sculptor.**

**The Laughing Game: All players sit in a circle facing each other. Each one in turn says either "Ha", "Ho", or "Hee" – the first person to laugh loses.**

"**How" "What" "Where" "when" was demonstrated in the story. Each question can only be asked once.**

**N.B. The 'object' father was thinking of, was a well dressed shop window...get your minds from the gutter you lot!**


End file.
